


Colours of Love

by shunnedfreak



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Bodily Fluids, Fairy Tale Elements, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-10-20 05:26:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10655835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shunnedfreak/pseuds/shunnedfreak
Summary: Love transcends time, space and the meager imaginings of man.





	Colours of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Still not mine!  
> Please enjoy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

They say there was once a man. He painted himself his heart’s desire.

They say there was once a man. This is his story.

He starts with the eyes.

He paints them a startling silvery blue, wide and expressive looking into his. Even in these early stage they are mesmerizing.

He thinks them female at first, as he paints the thick lashes that frame the eyes. But he reconsiders when his hand makes the brows thick, yet elegant. 

He spends hours perfecting the shades, for the eyes are truly the window of the soul. He only stops when the cramping of of his empty belly reminds him he only broke his fast. It is now time for supper.

The food is a simple fare of cheese and bread, washed down by warm mead. Bard hardly tastes it. His thoughts are consumed by the painting he has started.

His dreams of late, has been plagued by milky skin and hair kissed by moonlight. He wakes to the taste of sweet breath and the cooling spend on his thighs.

Bard wishes to return painting, but it is late. He has spent the day creating life on canvas and has neglected the bows and arrows he is paid to make. He would have to rise long before the sun to make up the day he lost.

Bard’s life is simple. He lives at the edge of the village, close enough to the forest that the sounds of wild animals are more familiar than those of men.

He was a painter once. Requested by lords and ladies for his expertise. He left it all behind when he lost it all.

Now he is a bowman of reasonable skill and in return, of reasonable wages. He does not have much, but it is of no consequence when he is alone.

He paints the nose, straight and regal, the cheeks sharp and the chin full of character. When Bard paints the lips pink and slightly parted, he knows love.  

The dreams have a face now. It is of the man he paints. And the man whispers to him each night. Soft and intimate, with words that leave Bard with drying tears and his hand, frantic between his legs.

He paints harder. He is mad with need to see the man in his dreams, if only as a product of oils and brush.

The shoulders Bard makes, is broad and handsome, a perfect counterpoint to the graceful neck Bard wishes to kiss. 

He runs out of paint before he is able to create the man’s hair. He ventures out to the village in search for more. He dodges wayward chickens and puddles from the recent rain. The people he meets greet him with good humor. To them he was the outsider that came alone. A former man of the big towns, here to forget his woeful past. They would be right.

He steps into what passes off as the village’s only library and book shop. The place is dusty and cramped, fairly bursting with scrolls and parchment. The tinkle of the bell above the door calls Tauriel from the maze this place is.

She smiles at him and asks if he is here for more books. He says no, but for paint instead. The best ones they have. She looks curious and surprised, no one in the village knows that he paints. Nevertheless, she retrieves them, her skirts swishing along the wooden floor as she goes. When she returns, her carefully braided auburn locks are in a disarray. The paints proved hard to find, being at the very back of the store as no one else is in need of them.

He pays her the required amount of gold. It is quite a sum, for paints are a luxury this far from the king’s palace. But is of no consequence, his time as a painter was lucrative enough.

Before he departs, Tauriel inquires as to his health. She thinks him pale and much to reclusive. From another, Bard would find such questions intrusive. But Tauriel’s green eyes are warm and filled with concern. It is not a bother to reassure her that he is fine.

Back in the simple cottage he calls home, Bard rids himself of his brown tunic and belt. It would not do to get paint on the garments. He takes off his leather shoes and stands barefoot. He feels closer to the man he paints, to be this near naked.

The hair he paints is waxen and lucent, falling thick and straight, framing the man’s stately face. Half-finished, yet so beautiful, Bard only has to lean closer and their lips meet. A memory of his nights and his dream lover’s voice, and Bard breathes __Thranduil__ against their lips _ _.__

When he opens his eyes, the portrait seems more alive, painted skin lush and pink. He loves him more.

Thranduil is clad in naught but an elaborate robe of red and gold. It is heavy and pools around his figure, opulent and impressive, befitting the man that wears it. The robe contrast beautifully with Thranduil’s alabaster skin and fair hair. Bard can not bear to have all that skin covered, so paints the robe to drape, exposing one shoulder enticingly. He scarcely manages to paint a nipple, dusky and pebbled before his fingers are scrambling to free himself from his breeches.

His pleasure is hard and fast as he looks into Thranduil’s eyes, one hand braced on the canvases’ edge, the other pulling forth his release. He fills his humble cottage with the sound of harsh pants, and a needy groan when he finally spends.

His seed splatters Thranduil’s chest and neck, and it is long moments before realizes this.

Bard is horrified to have desecrated the painting so, but there is nothing to do but let it dry, lest he mess up the paint.

He tucks himself back and presses a kiss of apology to his lover’s lips.

That night, when he dreams, Thranduil feels closer than ever. 

Bard wishes to paint. He is nearly done. With each day that passes, Thranduil looks even more real. Ever more tangible.

But his hands shake, and his eyes burn. Today, he can not touch a brush, nor can he mix the rich colours Thranduil deserves.

Today, he thinks of his family and the days he lost them. His lovely wife was first. The pain of her loss was so visceral he nearly bled with it. When he thought himself nearly recovered, he lost his children as well. One after the other, each succumbing to the same sickness that took their mother. That took the villages and the towns, the country and everything Bard knew. They burned with fever, their mouths filled with blood and each night they cried out in pain. When the rot ate away their skin, Bard knew true despair. He raged and cried and begged. But there was no saving them. He buried his family and he could do no more than cry, for around him the world rang with the sounds of pain and the scent of sickness and decay ever-present. His family’s death was unexceptional.

He has nothing left. He has no one left.

Except for Thranduil. So Bard takes the portrait to the room where he sleeps, where upon he may gaze at Thranduil’s alluring countenance. For it to be the first and last thing he beholds each day.

Bard finds that he is bleeding. His palm stings from a diagonal cut that he does not recall acquiring. He has marred the sides of the canvas with his blood. It looks striking against the white.

A thought goes through his distraught min, prompting him to dip shaking fingers against the wound, coating the digits in warm, red liquid. Bard brings his dripping fingers to Thranduil’s face, and with achingly careful strokes, he paints the portrait’s lips rouge.

Exquisite.

Bard brings Thranduil trinkets he buys from his trips to the village. Brightly coloured baubles and jewelries he believes his lover will like. He places it around his portrait and he thinks Thranduil’s eyes shine with pleasure.

He talks to Thranduil as he works on the bows and arrows asked of him. He tells him of his thoughts, and his life before. He speaks of his children and of his wife. He shares his observations of the villagers and sometimes his speaks of his darkest desires.

Bard fancies that Thranduil can understand. He eyes gleam in laughter when he shares an amusing tale. At times his face takes on a distinctive air of judgment at opinions Bard voice. Thranduil’s beautiful eyes turn melancholic and his rouged lips turn down when Bard cries from the grief and loneliness that fills him.

It is mad. This dreams he has, the desires he has for this portrait. A figment of his imagination, brought to life only by his hands and paint.

He covers his lover in the finest velvet he can find. Keeps him beneath his bed, wrapped up tight and safe, never to be admired again.

 

His life trudges on. Dreary and monotonous. Without Thranduil’s company, the desolation affects Bard harder.

He perseveres, for Bard can not live his life devoted to a portrait that can not love him back.

There is a festival in the village. The place is bright with laughter and merriment. There are merchants everywhere, selling exotic foods and even more exotic items.

There is dancing and drinking and for a moment Bard is drawn in. He joins in the raucous laughter and the uninhibited joy of the place. The evening is ripe with scent of candied apples and warm cider. Music fills the air and brightly coloured flags compete with the women’s dresses.

He nearly trips over one of the may children that litter the village square. In an effort to avoid them, he catches sight of a stall, selling numerous sparkling items. The merchant selling them draws his attention to the most exceptional necklace he has ever seen. It is made of silver and set in the purest white stones that sparkle in the torch light. The merchant short and burly, with thick black hair adorning his head and chin grins triumphantly. He almost seems loath to part with them, but Bard pays handsomely. He needs this necklace.

He runs home. Past the boisterous people of the village. Past the houses and the stream where the women wash and the children bathe. On and on he runs until he reaches home. He does not take off his shoes. There is no more time to waste. He has wasted enough time neglecting his lover. For trying to erase him from his mind. Denying the dreams he has.

He unwraps the portrait, gentle even in his haste.

Thranduil looks dull, his glow diminished from weeks he was kept away. His beautiful eyes are forlorn and filled with hurt and Bard can do nothing but present him with the necklace, even as tears fills his eyes. He is sorry. So, so sorry. Thranduil forgive him.

He is near frenzied in his distress, so much so, he does not notice the scent of roses that fills the air. The steady warming of his room is inconsequential to the pain he feels and his quest for forgiveness.

It is only when a soft hand slides into his hair and another tilts his chin up do his tears stop.

Thranduil is before him. Not as a portrait, but as a living flesh and blood, warm and alive. He kneels before Bard, eyes filled with concern. He is as lovely as his portrait. Nay. Much more perfect than Bard’s rendering could ever be. The robes Bard made for him pool around his feet, giving glimpses of of a long neck, elegant arms and shapely thighs.

Thranduil wipes away the moisture from his eyes. Only when Bard has calmed, does his lover kiss him. Thranduil kisses him slowly, almost delicately, filling Bard’s senses with passion and at the same time peace. Their lips cling when Thranduil withdraws.

“You have painted me and brought me to life. I felt your love in every stroke of your brush. Your regard for me was evident in every gift you brought. Each word, each memory you shared with me has made me real. You have bled, cried, and painted me your seed. Each one has made it so, that I am here. Bard, you did this for me and more. Let me do the same for you. Will you follow me, beloved?”

Bard agrees. He is dazed, and in awe, for even in his most fevered dreams, he had not conceived this miracle. 

They say there was once a man. He had lost much and he had grieved more. He painted himself a lover that gazed into his heart and saw not only his pain, but the beauty within. The painting loved the man that created him and took him to a place where the man could be happy. Away from grief and loss. Away from loneliness and pain.

They say there is a portrait, an exquisite portrait, that filled all those that gazed upon it with love and hope. Within the portrait is a man with hair kissed by moonlight and robes of red and gold. Upon his neck glitters a necklace made of silver and the purest of gems. Within his arms, cradled against his chest is man with hair as dark as the night, face lined with grief that serves only to illuminate his smile.

 

 

  

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by the story of Pygmalion and Galatea :D  
> Also, Bard's family died from the Black Plague, in case anyone was wondering.


End file.
